


Docthor Week 2k19

by Xpouii



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Gore, M/M, Murder, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-08 22:36:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18904051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xpouii/pseuds/Xpouii
Summary: My entries for Docthor Week 2019!The story of Dr. Iplier and The Author, how they meet and how their relationship evolves. Will be updated daily! Tags added/updated as each chapter is added.Smut tags added for final chapter (7)





	1. First Meeting

                It was three in the afternoon when Edward Iplier left the hospital. He’d put the top down on his car and the exhilaration of the wind in his hair made him smile. He was just off a monumental shift, and he’d sleepwalked through a shower before drinking an obscenely large black coffee and taking his leave. He was a man of simple pleasures, and simple goals. He loved his job, and he needed to obey Dark, and that was it. The in-between was up to him, and he spent most of it in his car with the day rushing past inconsequentially. Out here, nothing could touch him, in ways both bad and good; he was drifting through a world that didn’t feel like it belonged to him—nor he to it.

                The wreck had already happened when he took the curve, and he slammed on the brakes, swerving to miss them. One car was upside-down and the other looked like an accordion. A head-on collision between two cars probably going too fast. Edward turned off his car and jumped out dialing 911. He spoke to the operator as he ran to the upside-down car where the wailing of a baby broke the eerie silence; gas was drizzling onto the pavement and the engine was smoking. The driver was a man; he was unconscious, but he had worn his seatbelt, and his injuries weren’t immediately obvious. The woman in the passenger seat was awake, and blood and tears smeared her face, “My baby! I have a baby in the backseat!”

                Edward put his cell in his pocket and moved to the back seat, avoiding the shattered glass to crawl in enough to reach the carseat. The baby was red and frightened, but when Edward pulled her from the car, she quieted. “She looks alright,” Edward said.

                “Thank you,” the woman said as her husband stirred beside her.

                Edward cradled the baby in one arm as he went around and reached to release the woman’s seatbelt. “Put your hands over your head.”

                The woman did as she was told, and caught herself when the seatbelt was undone. She crawled out and took the baby from Edward, moving away into the ditch. The man let himself out, and the three of them seemed fairly intact; Edward turned to the other car, and there was still no movement. The familiar adrenaline kicked up, and he rushed over to help.

                The second car was a different story entirely, twisted metal and twisted people. The driver was dead, head broken into the windshield and body crushed by the wheel. Edward ran around to check the passengers. The front passenger was alive, but barely. He groaned as Edward approached; his legs were broken, large compound fractures above both knees. Porcelain bones jutted out of a sea of red, and blood trickled down his chin as well. “It’s going to be ok,” Edward said. “Emergency services are on their way. Just try not to move.”

                The man nodded, but his eyes were glazed, and Edward worried he was in shock. The three children in the backseat were unconscious, but all three were breathing, and Edward didn’t see anything beyond scrapes and bruises. Best to leave them for the paramedics. Behind him, the upside-down car roared into flames, and the small family watched in horror. Edward breathed a sigh of relief that they were safe as he went to move his car to the shoulder, and he could hear the distant wail of ambulance sirens.

 

 

 

                Edward left the twisted cars to the police. The injured were gone, and he was starting to get a fatigue headache. As he walked toward his car, he heard a voice in the trees, “Hello?”

                _The woods are deep, green and beautiful. The lighting is just perfect, and the smell of honeysuckle and pine is inviting. What perfect weather for a walk._

“Hello?” Edward called again, looking around for the speaker. There was no one that he could see, and the path—while clear—showed no recent footprints. “Is anyone there?”

                _The man set out on the path. His journey had officially begun._

                Edward felt a chill go up his spine, and he was compelled to follow the words. He hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours, and there was a remote possibility he was suffering auditory hallucinations. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been pushed beyond his exhaustion threshold. “It’s fine, Edward. Just don’t let them make you do anything crazy. A walk certainly won’t hurt you, right?”

                He shoved his car keys into his jacket pocket and checked the time on his phone. He had an hour or two until sunset, plenty of time for a frolic in the forest. He walked along, the path was framed on either side by tight tree growth, making it difficult to see beyond the dirt ahead and behind him. There was a fork up ahead, and Edward hesitated. What now?

                _The man goes left out of habit._

Edward hesitated, but then left did seem to make the most sense, and he sighed, following instructions, “I hope you know what you’re doing, hallucinations.”

                Jokes aside, he was truly starting to feel _wrong_ , perhaps a little out of his mind. He couldn’t stop now if he wanted, following the directions of the words. Quite the definition of a slippery slope. The path grew more treacherous, and Edward wished he could stop, or at least slow down, but he had his back to the setting sun and his car might as well have been a state away.

                _The man takes off his jacket and leaves it behind with his phone and keys still in the pocket. He doesn’t need his wallet._

Edward’s hands worked quickly, stripping off his jacket and tossing it into the trees, followed by his expensive leather wallet. Henrik had bought it for him the year before to celebrate a piece they’d coauthored, a study on—

                _The man leaves the path._

“What?” Edward froze. The trees were thick, and there was no obvious way to go. He could feel the words at the base of his skull, like a hand clamped onto the nape of his neck, and they pushed him forward, stumbling into the thick undergrowth

                Vines snaking across the ground and lifted roots caught his feet every once in a while, but he managed to stay upright, fighting against the terrain until he came to a clearing. It was more of a shack than a cabin, small and dark and not very inviting. Edward paused, taking half a step back; he suddenly felt very exposed, and more than a little nervous.

                _The man walks to the cabin. Light pours out through an old fashioned keyhole in the door, too tempting not to look._

Edward approached the building, on edge. What was he doing? What was he thinking? But he couldn’t stop himself. He knelt and looked through the keyhole. The cabin was messy with stacks of notebooks, folders and loose papers rising several feet up from the floor. Dust particles danced in the industrial lighting, and Edward thought he could hear footsteps. They were crisp, heavy, and he pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear.

                Edward was unable to react when the aluminum bat connected with his head, making a loud, tinny _whump_ , and blackness took him.


	2. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward meets a new friend.

                Edward looked around. He was in a dark room with ropes tied around him. His body screamed from the position—arms stretched straight up over his head—and he could feel that his left shoulder was out of socket. He was tied onto some sort of rack, and he struggled to get his feet underneath him. They rested on a single narrow pipe that promised to become increasingly painful to stand on. He groaned, looking around in the darkness. He couldn’t see anyone. He was alone. Was he hallucinating? He felt the pain, and he actually felt _rested_ , an obscene juxtaposition that would have made him laugh if he wasn’t currently terrified.

                Suddenly, in the corner, a small writing desk lamp went on, filling the space with a warm glow, tinted green by the thick glass shade, “You’ve been asleep for fourteen hours.”

                Edward looked at the man sitting at the desk. He had his feet up, and he looked tired as well; maybe it was the permanent scowl he wore. “Is this your home?”

                “Yeah, you were creeping around like a lunatic. I guess I should thank you, though.”

                “Thank me?”

                “For listening, for following directions so well. For _participating_. It’s so much easier when we work together, you know. Of course, once I had you in the woods, you were mine.”

                “Are you saying… the voice I heard was _yours_?” Edward wanted to laugh, but he knew stranger people capable of stranger things. “Assuming that is true, what did you want with me?”

                “I wanted a subject,” the man said. “I’m the Author. It’s what I do. You were close enough to get caught in my trap, and now here you are. You were so well behaved. It’s a shame to end it on just one book.”

                “One book? Wait, _end_ it? What do you mean end it? Are you  going to-“

                “Oh shut up,” the Author said. “You know what I mean. You’re tied up and your left shoulder is out of joint. Your right will follow as soon as your feet start to sweat and slip back off of that pipe. Then you’ll either eventually suffocate on your own fluids or something more dramatic. I haven’t decided yet. Still plotting. You’re a little bigger than I expected, a little shorter too. I’m not sure this scene is quite appropriate for your body type. Tell me, how do you do with blood?”

                “I-I’m a doctor,” Edward said. “Although I haven’t seen large quantities of my _own_ blood before. Are you going to murder me?”

                “No,” the Author said. “I’m going to let the words do it for me. You’re going to cry and scream and beg and I’m going to write you out of existence. Then I’m going to publish the book and everybody will pay me to do it again.”

                “Go ahead,” Edward said. “I’ve made peace.”

                The Author held his pen over paper, but he stood up, running his hands through his hair as he approached Edward, “How does a man make peace with the fact that I’m about to tear him to pieces?”

                Edward shrugged, not an easy task given his injuries, “I’ve lived a clean life, a good life. I’ve been kind to others, kind to myself, and I’ve never given anything short of my best at my job.”

                The Author looked disgusted, and he brought his head down against Edward’s face, shattering his nose, “God I still like to do some of it by hand. I never would have heard those bones break so clear from over at the desk. How’s that blood taste, Doctor?  Still feeling all that peace?”

                Blood flowed down over Edward’s mouth and chin, pattering onto his white shirt, “Sure am.”

                The Author growled, stalking back to his desk. He scribbled away at the paper, eyes darting up to Edward as his hand skipped along the page. A tightness around Edward’s throat made him grunt, but he closed his eyes, fighting to remain calm. Panicking when you’re being strangled only makes things worse, after all. The invisible hands squeezed, and Edward’s head spun as his brain cried out for oxygen.

The Author’s hand stilled, and Edward’s choking gasps were music to his ears, but something made him hesitate. It shouldn’t be over so quickly, should it? Such a large and articulate man snuffed out by an invisible hand seemed like a waste. He should at least choke on his own blood, something flashy. The pen in his hand shook, and he tried to write it. He would flay the skin from his body, tear out organs, spread the man in pieces all around the room until his cabin was ruined, bloody and wet and ruined like it had been before. But none of the words came. The Author slammed his hand down on the desk and stood up. He ripped the page out and shredded it.

                Edward took a gasping breath, coughing and wheezing. He crashed to the floor as the ropes and the rack disappeared, and he was left in a heap, cradling his injured shoulder. He remained as stoic as possible, but there was clear pain on his face. The Author approached and grabbed Edward by the hair, yanking him to his feet, “Why?”

                “W-why?”

                “Why cant I kill you, you stupid _bastard!_? Why can’t I write the words? Why can’t I make it happen?!”

                Edward sputtered, just as surprised as the Author. He shook his head and tears stung his eyes, “I don’t know.”

                “It should be _me_ crying, not you!” The author muttered, dropping Edward back to the floor. “You’re not the one with a deadline on your hands. Well… maybe that’s not necessarily true. My publisher doesn’t really care about when they get their manuscript. They aren’t looking forward to this book but they indulge me.”

                Edward sat up slowly as the Author went to his desk and lit a cigarette. “You know what it is about this industry? Too many writers and not enough publishers. They have the pick of the litter and we get the scraps. Well, I’m tired of it. Somebody is going to appreciate my vision or I’ll march every one of those idiots down here myself and kill them slowly. Wouldn’t that be a magnum opus? Idiot Author destroys his own publisher. My agent might as well go too. They’re not doing me much good.  It’s not about the books anymore, anyway. Is it?”

                Edward blinked, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand”

                “Nobody understands,” The author said. “That’s the point. Just shut up and wait for me to get over this block. They never last long. Then I’ll kill you and I can get on with my life. What’s your name?”

                “Edward Iplier,” Edward said. “I’m a-“

                “Doctor right, nobody cares. It’s inconsequential. Now if you were a soldier, an ex-marine or some kind of spy—something that could help you escape? I could work with that, add in a bit of suspense. But you’re not exactly going to stitch yourself back together while I’m killing you. So just keep it to yourself.”

                “You asked-“

                “I don’t think I did,” the Author said. “And keep your opinions to yourself too. I didn’t invite you here to talk to me.”

                “Well you didn’t invite me,” Edward started, scrambling backward when the Author stood up, “Sorry!”

                The Author sat down, stubbing out his cigarette, “You really are stupid for a doctor. Has anybody ever told you that?”

                “Not in so many words,” Edward said.

                “Do you drink?”

                Edward hesitated, then nodded, “Yes.”

                The Author waved him over to the desk, pouring him a glass of scotch and sliding it across. Edward sat down and took the glass, holding it up, “To your um… writing?”

                The Author snorted, holding up his own glass, “To your swift and poetic demise.”

 


	3. Before/After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion of motive.

                Edward sat through three more of the Author’s rants. His shoulder was aching, and he could barely use that arm. The Author was onto his fourth drink when Edward decided he wasn’t letting him go. He slouched in his chair, reaching down with his left arm to grip the bottom of the chair. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his torso upward, and in a quick flash of agony—and an audible crack, his shoulder slid back into its socket. The relief was immediate, and Edward sighed, closing his eyes.

                When he opened his eyes, the Author was watching him, “All better?”

                “Ideally I would have my arm in a sling to keep this from happening again right away,” Edward said. “But I suppose under the current circumstances, that doesn’t matter.”

                The Author smiled, tapping his nose, “Alright. Time for bed.”

                Edward looked around the small room, “Bed?”

                “Well not for you I guess.” He picked up his pen and scribbled across a fresh page. Ropes appeared around Edward, pulling tight and securing him to the chair. “Can you get out?”

                Edward stared back at him, “No?”

                “Good,” the Author slurred, standing up from his desk. “Goodnight then.” He turned off the lights and left the room, closing the door behind him.

                Edward blinked in the darkness. “Wonderful, Edward,” he muttered. “Maybe if you hadn’t thrown your cellphone into the woods like a lunatic you wouldn’t be spending the night in the world’s least comfortable chair.”

                He eventually did sleep, dead to the world in that shitty chair.

 

                Edward woke with a start to a loud noise. The Author had kicked the door open, and he was carrying two mugs of coffee, “Good morning, Edward. I see you slept.”             

                “If I get much more sleep I might turn into a different person,” Edward muttered.

                “Let’s hope so,” the Author said, sitting at his desk. He tore up the piece of paper, and the ropes fell away. He slid the coffee cup across the desk for Edward. “Then maybe I could make something out of you.”

                “How long do you think you’ll keep trying?” Edward asked, taking a tentative sip of the coffee. It was good.

                “Well I don’t like to share trade secrets,” the Author said. “But if I don’t figure something out today, I’ll just kill you the old fashioned way and try with someone else.”

                Why not let me go?” Edward offered.

                The Author smirked, “Cute.”

                Edward sighed, “Well if I’m stuck here, do you might if I ask a few questions?”

                “You’ve done nothing else,” the Author said. “Go ahead.”

                “What makes you want to do this? Kill people, I mean… instead of just writing books and being famous?” Edward took another swallow of coffee, the gesture feeling oddly casual as he stared down his kidnapper— _attacker? Future murderer?_

                “The words I guess,” the Author said. “At first, it was about the books, the fame. Then my subject went rogue, and I realized that keeping them around was my biggest mistake. Happy endings are out of fashion after all. So now, when the story ends, so does the subject. It’s elegant, simple, and it solves the problem of rebellion. I got a taste for it. My books don’t sell, not well anyway. Perhaps the violence was too niche, but it doesn’t matter. It’s about the power now, the hunger to see them suffer.”

                “So if you didn’t have the power, you couldn’t see them suffer, and you wouldn’t crave it?”

                The Author was thoughtful, and he stared at his hands, “Couldn’t see the suffering?” He shook his head, “I don’t know that for certain. I’ve always wanted to write. Maybe I just got tired of using conventional tools.”

                Edward turned his attention back to his coffee, “I guess that makes sense.”

                “And what about you, _Edward_? Why did you become a doctor?”

                “I saw those daytime shows, you know the ones, with all of the beautiful wealthy people and the handsome doctors. Honestly, that’s why I took an interest. By the time I was in highschool, it had bloomed into an interest in anatomy and biology, but the start of it was my grandma’s soap stories.” Edward chuckled, “Not exactly the humanitarian answer most doctors would have I suppose.”

                “Those are mostly bullshit anyway,” the Author said. “People don’t just want to help people. Trust me, I’ve seen the worst and the best our species has to offer.”

                “And even the best is selfish?” Edward asked.

                The Author smirked, “Well you did say you only wanted to be a handsome television doctor. So, yes, even the best person on this trash planet so far is a selfish idiot.”

                Edward smiled, “That’s a rather large burden you’ve put on my shoulders.”

                The Author shrugged, “If I had my way, you’d be dead at the end of a book already, but here we are.”

               

 

                The hours stretched by, and Edward grew increasingly aware of every movement, every expression, every sound the Author made in his struggle to write. He was on edge, although perhaps he shouldn’t be; he was going to die either way. Honestly, living in the mansion, he hadn’t expected to be murdered by someone that he didn’t live with, but life’s funny that way. Edward had started to doze again when the Author stood up, stalking around his desk and grabbing Edward by the hair. He hauled him backward, slamming him—and the shitty chair—to the ground. Edward cried out as his sore shoulder flared in pain, but he silenced as he felt the cold metal of a knife at his throat.

                “Time’s up,” the Author said. “I’m tired of waiting, and every breath you take is more infuriating than the last.”

                Edward swallowed, squeezing his eyes closed as the knife pressed further, digging into his skin; there was a sting, the tickle of blood, and then nothing. The Author roared as he got to his feet, throwing the knife down so that the blade stuck in the wood inches away from Edward’s face.

                “Why the fuck can’t I kill you?!” the Author raged.

                Edward opened his mouth, to speak, to plead, to do something, but a brutal kick to his ribs turned his words into a stuttered wheeze of pain, and he curled in around himself. The next blow never came, but the Author did nudge him onto his stomach and roughly hogtied him. Edward groaned at the pain in his shoulder, but he stayed otherwise quiet; his sense of self-preservation was finally starting to kick in. The Author left the room, stomping through the small cabin and rummaging through drawers. When he returned, he was dressed all in black, in a zip-up hoodie with the familiar aluminum bat in his hand. “Stay here,” he growled, then he was gone.


	4. AU Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Edward Iplier is a psychiatrist known for his modern approach to psychology and his disdain for using lobotomy as a treatment. He is invited to work at Mythea Asylum with some of the place's most unique and difficult patients. Historic Asylum AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went way overboard with this one. Thinking about making it its own fic!

                Dr Edward Iplier climbed out of the taxi and pulled his jacket tighter around him. It was cold this close to the coast, and Mythea Asylum backed right up to the seaside. He took a moment to look over the beautiful building, and the few residents milling about the grounds all dressed in white. He climbed the stairs and went inside, cradling his briefcase under one arm. A few nurses ignored him, some even giving him dirty looks, until finally one man stopped and reached for his hand, “Dr Iplier it’s an honor to finally meet you in person.”

                “You must be Director Trimmer,” Edward said, smiling, if a little overwhelmed by the man’s enthusiasm.

                “Oh please, just Mr. Trimmer. I don’t have use for big titles. You’re early! That’s admirable for someone who’s traveled so far to our little slice of paradise.”

                Edward looked around the sprawling entrance hall, nodding, “It’s an old habit, Mr. Trimmer. So, tell me why I’m so popular here already.”

                “Oh ignore the nurses,” Trimmer said, beckoning him down a long hallway. “Your treatments and philosophies are new, and most of our nurses would prefer to just tie down patients or send them off for a lobotomy. I’ll personally be glad when the whole practice stops!”

                “Well I hear your facility performs a record low amount of them,” Edward said. “Only two last year. That’s almost unheard of. It’s part of the reason I agreed to work with you.”

                “Very good sir, very good,” Trimmer said. “I have given you an office on the lower level with an adjacent bedroom. It’s a little dreary, but it’s the furthest away from the hubbub so that you can conduct your work in relative peace. There are three patients in the same hallway, but they’re all relatively harmless. I’ll introduce you once you are feeling up to it.”

                “Oh, please, right away,” Edward said. “I’d love to meet my neighbors.”

                Trimmer smiled and clapped his hands together, opening a door that led onto a landing with stairs going down. It smelled cold, and wet, but not moldy or mildewed, and Edward liked the space already. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs he stopped to admire the old sodium lights with a smile. Trimmer was patient, letting him sightsee as they went at a crawl down the corridor. “Here is our first gentleman,” he said when they reached a door marked _178_. Trimmer knocked smartly, “Wilford! It’s Bim. I have someone to introduce!”

                The door was opened and a large, burly man with an expressive face and a vibrant mustache emerged into the hallway, “Well hello! I’m Wilford Warfstache.”

                “This is Edward Iplier. He’s our new psychiatrist.”

                Edward extended his hand and Wilford shook it. He was strong, and his eyes betrayed his wily intelligence, “Great to meet you, Doc. I hope the nurses don’t run you off!”

                Edward chuckled, “Thank you, Wilford. It’s nice to meet you, and they’ve already given me an icy reception.”

                “Wilford here works as a custodian on the night rotation,” Trimmer said. “He has grounds privileges and if you’re ever unsure where to go, he’ll get you there.”

                Wilford gave a little salute, then returned to his room with a flourish, “He’s great,” Edward said.

                “He wasn’t always,” Trimmer said. “He was in a fairly ugly battle in the war, came home and murdered his best friends and one of the men’s wives. It’s truly tragic how those who defend us are often abandoned to their own broken minds once they return home.”

                Edward nodded, his eyes lingering on the door as he followed Trimmer on, “Such an impressive turnaround. Has he been-“

                “No,” Trimmer said. “No Lobotomy, but he’s had extensive hypnosis sessions and we monitor him closely. Any attempt to break him out of his delusions usually ends in a backslide, but he is completely harmless as long as you play along.”

                “Good to know,” Edward said. “I’d like to see him, as a patient if I could.”

                “You have access to any and all of our patients,” Trimmer said. “As long as you promise not to break him. I have a bit of a soft spot.”

                Edward chuckled, “Of course.”

                The next room, 179 was on the opposite side of the hallway from his own, and Trimmer had to knock twice before it was opened. A young woman emerged with a shadowy expression, “Yes, Mr. Trimmer?”

                “Yan,” Trimmer said with a gentle voice. “This is Dr. Edward Iplier. He’s our new psychiatrist. Remember I told you that you would be seeing someone new?”

                Yan folded her arms, leaning against the doorway, “What good it will do me. Thanks, Mr. Trimmer.” She looked Edward up and down, giving him a stiff nod of greeting, and then disappeared back into her room.”

                “You have a teenage girl down in the same hall with-“

                “Yan is a very special case,” Trimmer said. “She’s an androgyne.”

                “I believe they go by transsexuals now,” Edward said. “So she was born male?”

                Trimmer nodded, “I’ve yet to find a doctor who can work with her beyond wanting to cure the one thing that I think _isn’t_ wrong with her. Other than that she has a rather violent attachment tendency. She isn’t allowed around any of the male orderlies or patients her own age as a result, thus why we keep her sequestered with the two gentlemen down here. I do desperately hope you can do her some good.”

                “I believe I can,” Edward said. “I’m most certainly willing to try. Alright, who’s next?”

                Trimmer walked down another door, knocking gently. After a long moment of silence, the door opened, just halfway, and the patient stepped out. “This is Eric,” Trimmer said. “Eric, this is the new psychiatrist, Dr. Edward Iplier.”

                The young man stared at the floor, twisting a yellow cloth in his hands, “Hello.”

                “Eric suffers with debilitating anxiety and asked to be sequestered from the general population. He doesn’t feel comfortable in large groups, or any groups.”

                Eric glanced halfway up from the floor, head turned toward Edward, “N-new psychiatrist?”

                “That’s right, Eric. He’s here for you,” Trimmer said. “And a few others, but I’ve told him about your case.”

                “I’m certain that I can help you,” Edward said.

                Eric nodded, a shaky, unsure movement, and backed up a step toward his room, “May I?”

                “Of course,” Trimmer said. “Thank you, Eric.”

                The young man closed his door so softly it barely made an audible sound. Edward cleared his throat, “Fascinating. He seems to be suffering from more than just anxiety.”

                “He had a trouble childhood and early adulthood,” Trimmer said. He witnessed the death of almost his entire family, and his father is extremely abusive. He is the one who brought Eric here, dropped him off like a dog at a kennel. This poor man has never been trained to handle social situations, and he still harbors fear and resentment for the things that happened to him before he came. Group Therapy is impossible, and one-on-one sessions don’t work well with most doctors as they just don’t have the patience it takes to treat Eric.”

                “I’m confident I can make some leeway,” Edward said. “I’ve worked similar cases in young children, but the symptoms seem to be similar enough. I’m sure I can apply the same actions to get the same results.”

                “Wonderful,” Trimmer said. “Now, let’s see your office shall we?”

                The room was dusty, but not overwhelming. It had recently been cleaned, as the dust was all in the air instead of settled on surfaces. There was a large, impressive desk, and several empty bookcases. “I’ll have to send for my books,” Edward mused. “I didn’t expect so much room.”

                “You’re a bit of a celebrity here,” Trimmer said. “At least to those of us with a vision of the future. I want to take this hospital out of the dark ages. It’s been a staple of my life since I was a child. My mother was a nurse here and my father was a doctor as well. I just want to make them proud.”

                “I know they would be already,” Edward said. “This place is beautiful.”

                “Every beautiful place has its dark secrets,” Trimmer said. “Speaking of, I believe you’d like to see the isolation ward?”

                Edward nodded, “It would be nice to know my way to it. A good deal of my time will be spent there, I suspect.”

                “Let’s hope so,” Trimmer said. “That means you haven’t given up!”

                Trimmer laughed and Edward smiled, indulging him, eager to lay eyes on the isolation ward, a chance to prove his theories and hypotheses on real violent offenders. It was the reason he’d agreed to transfer from his plush job upstate.

 

 

               “This is the isolation ward,” Trimmer said. “Patients here don’t ever interact with the general population, and you’ll have to use the consultation room here to interact with them. This is, of course, a large part of why I invited you here. These individuals need our help, more than anyone else. They’re prime candidates for lobotomy if you can’t help them.”

                Edward nodded, “I’m guessing I’ll be meeting them through a door?”

                “A quick introduction, with names, so you can decide whose files you’d like first. Here we have Dark. Very aggressive and manipulative, but rarely becomes physically violent unless provoked. He has a bad habit of causing the other patients to become violent, and it’s almost impossible to monitor him. He’s smart, smarter than any one of us, I’m guessing.”

                The man inside had his hair in his eyes, and a heavy beard, “When am I going to be permitted to shave again?”

                “When you don’t threaten to decapitate the kitchen staff,” Trimmer said. “Dark, this is the new psychiatrist.”

                “Edward Iplier,” Dark said, standing up. “I heard about you. You’re a modern man. You don’t have that downstairs urge to shove an ice pick in my eye. What a strange personality trait for a doctor.”

                “So I’m told,” Edward said. “I look forward to our first session.”

                Dark grinned, but it was stilted, more of a sneer, “Oh as do I, Doctor.”

                Trimmer slid the window shut over the grate and sighed, “He’s a handful. I’m not sure there’s much to be done for him, but still. He’s very concerned with his hygiene. It’s the only way I can get him to do anything.”

                “This next patient is nicknamed The Author. He is responsible for a record string of murders, all described in detail in books he would go on to publish. He’s our little celebrity. He is the most violent, most dangerous man here, and he will not hesitate to attack you. Do not let your guard down. He opened the window of the door, “Stand clear for spit.”

                Edward chuckled, all too familiar with these sort of patients. “Hello, I’m Dr. Edward Iplier, your new psychiatrist.”

                The man appeared at the window, wrapping his hands around the bars of the window, “Why don’t you come in and we’ll start our session, Edward.”

                “Soon, although I’m told there’s a special room for it.”

                The Author grit his teeth, “Of course, too afraid to come into my world, are you?”

                “I hear you’re a successful writer.”

                “I hear you’re a pushover who lets your emotions rule you, and that this asylum is going to chew you up, spit you out and send you back where you came from. I hope I get to kill you instead. You would look so pretty bleeding to death, wouldn’t you? Those eyes wide in panic, blood trickling out of the corner of your mouth while I bathe in your chest cavity.”

                “Enough pleasantries,” Trimmer said. “Thank you, Author.”

                “Pleasure,” the Author growled, and Trimmer closed the window.

                “We try not to indulge his threats,” Trimmer said. “He is very sadistic, and he gets great enjoyment from the fear of others.”

                “Don’t worry,” Edward said. “I don’t scare easily. Anyone else of note?”

                “Oh plenty of patients, but those are the five I want you focusing on the most. Two of them to save their lives, and three of them to _hopefully_ reintroduce them to society. I think you can handle much more, but I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

                “I’ll offer some open office hours then,” Edward said. “If any of the less particular patients should show any interest.”

                “I’ll let the nurses know,” Trimmer said. “Although don’t expect a stampede at first. You’re going to have do a lot of politicking to get patients outside of the five I’ve handpicked for you.”

                “Sure,” Edward said. “Thank you, Mr. Trimmer. I’m going to do everything I can to fulfill your wishes for these patients.”

                “I know you will,” Trimmer said, taking Edward’s hand in both of his. “I’m counting on you.” He left then, disappearing into his office, and Edward made his way back to his own room.

 

               

                The Author stared across the table, pulling against the restraints, testing them. “Are you certain this is necessary?” Edward asked.

                The orderly chuckled, and left the room, “Good luck, Doctor.”

                “Barbarians,” the Author said. “You see how they treat me?”

                “I expect it’s a lot better than you treated those thirty-four people,” Edward said. “But this isn’t a competition of depravity. Id like to talk to you about your mental well-being.”

                “No shit,” the Author said, chuckling. “Do you smoke?”

                “I don’t.”

                “The one fucking doctor who doesn’t smoke,” he growled. “Well, if you want anything out of me. It’ll cost you a cigarette.”

                “And I am to hold it to your mouth for you to smoke it?” Edward said, raising an eyebrow.

                “Unless you want to unstrap me,” the Author said. “You’re welcome to.”

                Edward chuckled, “It says here your father died when you were seven? And that your mother raised you until she kicked you out of the house at fourteen? Was she a prostitute?”

                “As you know,” the Author said. “I didn’t only kill women. I don’t have a hatred of women. My mother was a laundry worker, and she did the best she could. She threw me out because I tried to castrate her boyfriend. Honestly, she did me a favor.”

                Edward scribbled as the Author spoke, and the patient’s eyes fixated on the pen, licking his lips. Edward glanced up, “Do you like pens?”

                The Author glanced up, “I am a writer after all.”

                “Of course,” Edward said. “Well, maybe if you decide to stop being violent, or if we are able to successfully control your symptoms with medication, you can write again.”

                The author laughed, “Not unless you’re going to give me people to kill. Come on, Edward. Let’s start with that orderly huh? He treated you like a fool. Don’t let him do that. I could use that pen and split his sternum open. I could pull out his intestines and make you a scarf. I’d do that for you, in exchange for the pen.”

                “That’s really more of a threat than a deal,” Edward said. “I’m not sure an intestine scarf would go with my eyes. So tell me more about your time on the streets.”

                The Author snarled, fighting his restraints with vigor, testing each buckle and strap to its limit, and Edward watched, unaffected as he did so. Finally, he stopped, and his expression turned to a smile, “Well, you can’t blame me for trying.”

                “If you decide you want to take this seriously-“

                “Oh come on Edward. They’re going to shove an ice pick in my eye and scramble my brains. That’s all they _can_ do. There’s no fixing me. You can’t fix an evil man.”

                “There is no such thing as an evil man,” Edward said. “You’re an ill man. You’re mentally unwell, and I believe you could benefit from some of the new medications that-“

                “Medications? You trying to dope me up? Make me a drooling ragdoll? I don’t think so. I’m not taking any of that shit.”

                Edward cleared his throat, “This is different. Thorazine has been very successful at helping individuals with unpleasant urges to gain control over themselves, and no, once the medication has levelled out you won’t be a ragdoll. There are side effects but that can be handled.”

                The Author scowled, “I don’t think you get what I’m saying. I’m not letting you put any pills in me. I want to go back to my _room_ now.”

                “We aren’t finished.”

                “That’s not your decision!”

                Edward smiled, “Actually, due to you being mentally unsound, it is my decision. We can sit here all day and talk about your childhood and each one of your victims and why you did what you did, but you don’t like that do you? Why’s that?”

                “What’s to talk about?” the Author muttered. “It’s all in the book.”

                “Almost every other serial killer loves talking about what they’ve done. You’re an anomaly.”

                “Don’t try to flirt with me now after you already insulted me, Edward,” the Author said. “Listen, I’m a lost cause alright? Just let me go and wait for the pick already.”

                Edward sighed, “There isn’t going to be any ice pick. Mr. Trimmer has already made that promise, so you’re going to sit in that cell until you decide to cooperate, or-“

                “Or?”

                “Until I medicate you without your cooperation. It would be much easier with your input, but I don’t necessarily need it.”

                The Author shifted in his seat, looking around the room, “So you really want to give me this stupid pill?”

                “More than anything,” Edward said smugly. “If it doesn’t work, we stop right away.”

                The Author grit his teeth, staring at the floor, “Fine.”


	5. Monstrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward wears out his welcome.

                Edward woke up to screaming, and he tried to sit up, forgetting about the position he was tied in. The Author had a man tied to a chair with a bag over his head. He stepped over Edward to sit at his desk. “Hope you don’t mind; I lent him your chair.”

                Edward sat up against the desk, after much effort, and his stomach jumped, “Are you-“

                “How many times are you going to ask me that?” the Author said, opening a fresh notebook and scribbling at the top. “What’s your name? Hmm, you look like a Jerry. Fine.”

                Edward looked back to the man, and jumped when the bag was pulled away by invisible hands. Jerry’s eyes were terrified, and he desperately tried to talk through the duct tape over his mouth. Edward did his best to look sympathetic, but his own face was drawn with pain and fear, and there wasn’t much he could do to change it.

                The Author’s pen was lively, racing over the paper, and Edward squirmed, “Do I need to be here for this?”

                “Why not?” the Author said. “It’ll give you something to look forward to, right?”

                “But you can’t kill me,” Edward said.

                The Author paused, and the full fury of his dark eyes was focused on Edward. Edward looked back, the fear gone. He was tired, and he was ready to go home, and he was about to watch a man be tortured to death. The universe had dealt him the mother of all shitty hands, and here he was, hands going numb and the taste of stale coffee in his mouth. The fact that he _should_ consider himself lucky didn’t help him feel any better.

                Jerry was sweating by the time anything happened, squirming in his chair. He wasn’t expecting it—of course—how could he? It wasn’t like Jerry knew about the Author, or the horrible things he planned to do, but he got a good idea when suddenly the tape was ripped from his face. He whimpered, and looked around. Then a red gash opened up on his cheek, and he cried out. Another small cut bloomed on his neck, then the material of his shirt split and tore itself away. Edward closed his eyes. He wasn’t ready.

                The cuts were fast, shallow and small, and Jerry reacted to each one like it was the first, fear and pain and confusion. He was sweating more, and it mixed with the blood that flowed down his body until he was more like a movie prop than a man. The Author was grinning as he wrote, and he only lifted his eyes a time or two to survey the damage—look over his masterpiece—before he went back to it. There was something strangely poetic about his movements, and the way he carried himself.

                Edward swallowed thickly as nausea hit him, but he couldn’t help but admire the lean muscles of the Author’s arm, the way his dark eyes skipped over the paper, and how his lips parted and muttered wordlessly as he checked his work. Heat flared up in Edward’s face and he shook his head, pulling his eyes away from the Author to look at Jerry again. The man was alive, and the cuts had stopped—mostly because there was little space left where a cut or smeared blood wasn’t marring his skin. The room had gone almost silent, nothing but the scratches of pen to paper and Jerry’s shaking breath.

                The splitting of bones and skin was deafening when suddenly Jerry’s knees were spun inward, and the gore that leapt from the wound reminded Edward of the man in the wreck. The Author audibly moaned, biting down on the end of his pen as Jerry shrieked, a sound of pure animal pain and terror. Edward’s heart dropped and leapt all at once, but he couldn’t look away. Perhaps some part of him felt like he owed it to Jerry to watch, to play silent witness to his brutal ending, and another part of him was afraid to miss any of the Author’s sweet expressions. Once Jerry had quieted down, probably going into shock from blood loss, the pen started writing again. It felt like hours, days, weeks had passed since this had started. Time was stretched and skewed, and Edward felt like he was losing his mind. He watched the Author as he stood up, and moved around the desk. He knelt in front of Edward and cupped his face, pulling him into a bruising kiss.

                Edward stiffened, but his body betrayed him as he kissed the man back, sighing into his mouth. Had he lost his mind? Was the Author controlling him? It didn’t feel that way, but why the fuck else would he be making out with a deranged killer while his victim bled out mewling like a dying cat? The Author hauled him to his feet and pushed him against the desk, his skilled hands untying Edward. Edward groaned at the pain as his body was released from the forced arch, and he tried to catch his breath, but the Author claimed his mouth again, and he wrapped his arms around the man’s neck. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he wanted this, whatever this was. But then he realized what he was doing, and he pushed the Author away, gasping for breath. They stared at each other for a moment, both panting. When the Author moved in again Edward flinched away, closing his eyes.

                The Author scowled, shoving Edward away from the desk; his legs were still weak, and he went sprawling, his hands smearing in Jerry’s blood. He scrambled to his feet, and the Author was back at his desk, “Get out.”

                “What-“

                “GET THE FUCK OUT!” the Author roared.

                Edward ran.


	6. Unexpected Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward goes back.

                Edward stumbled down the path, stopping to lean against a tree and catch his breath. His heart was fluttering, and the dehydration was starting to catch up to him. His eyes caught a dark spot in the brush, and he pushed his way through toward it. _His jacket_. He took his phone out of his pocket and read through his messages. He had twelve from Dark, four from Wilford and one from Bim that simply read _911_. He typed a response, but before he hit send, the phone went dead. Sighing, he shoved it back into his pocket. He knelt and dug through fallen leaves until he found his wallet, and he pocketed it too. He couldn’t remember much about his walk in the woods, but he knew he had a bit of a journey ahead of him to get to his car.

                The walk took about an hour, and Edward had a killer headache when he slid into his car. There was a ticket on the windshield and he muttered when he got back out to grab it, tossing it inside. He sat at the wheel while his phone charged, waiting to see if he should go home or flee the country. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel, images of Jerry—and the taste of the Author’s lips—swirling in his head. He almost jumped through the roof when his phone rang, and he picked it up, “Iplier.”

                “Where _are_ you?”

                Edward was cautious when he spoke. He wasn’t sure Dark could reach through the phone and kill him, but he wasn’t eager to find out. “It’s a long story.”

                “It had better be.”

                When the call ended, Edward sighed, tossing his phone into the passenger seat. He started the drive home, all the while wishing he was back in the woods.

 

                Life as usual—if it could be called that—came back easily, and Edward managed not to be flayed alive for his absence. Henrik had covered for him at work, and he slipped into routine like a warm bath, although now when he had a quiet moment, he would stare off and think about blood, scribbling pens and dark eyes. Where his dreams had been scrambled iterations of patient charts, to-do lists and beeping monitors, now he dreamed of dark rooms, warm bodies and lips that tasted like coffee and alcohol. Every twinge of pain in his shoulder felt like a happy memory. In short, Edward was well and truly fucked.

 

                The path was the same as he remembered, but once he left it, the woods were nondescript, and he became hopelessly lost, tramping around in the undergrowth like a crazy person—and he most certainly was. When the cabin finally came into view he almost cried in relief, but settled instead on walking up and letting himself in. The door was unlocked—convenient, but worrying—and he pressed on into the kill room.

                Edward had expectations, the Author and a new victim, or a perhaps he’d be murdered the second he stepped inside. What he didn’t expect, was what he _did_ see. The room was in complete disarray, notebooks and papers and furniture overturned and broken. The Author sat at the desk, writing, scribbling away, but there was no sound, no paper, only blood and wood. Edward moved forward and the Author jerked upright. His eyes were _gone_ , and blood poured from the open sockets. Edward covered his mouth, but the nausea that rose was quickly replaced by his instincts, and he darted forward.

                As soon as he touched the Author, he pulled away, pushing at his hands, “No! No I have to finish. It isn’t finished!”

                Edward grabbed the pen and flung it away across the room, “Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing! You’ve nicked an artery, you must have. You could be bleeding into your brain. We have to get you to a hospital _now_.”

                “I’m not _finished_ ,” the Author growled.

                “Not finished with what?” Edward said. “What the hell are you doing?”

                The Author groped along the desk for his pen, but it was gone. “Can’t see, can’t kill. The power, if I can’t see, he— _I_ won’t want to see. He doesn’t need the power. The power needs him.”

                Edward took out his cellphone and dialed. Each ring was like a coffin nail, and when the voice on the otherside finally answered, Edward barked, “I need help!” and hung up. He hauled the Author to his feet, lifting him into his arms, “You’re going to die here you stubborn idiot.”

                “Edward… should let the Author die. The Author has to die.”

                Edward carried him outside, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

                With a flash of pink light, _help_ arrived. Wilford took one look at them and recoiled, “Doc I think your friend needs to take a nap.”

                “I need to get him to the hospital,” Edward said. “Please-”

                “The _hospital_?” Wilford shook his head. “No I don’t like hospitals. You know where we should go? The beach! Or! Mini golf!”

                “Wil _please_!” Edward shouted. “I need your help!”

                Wilford pouted at the exclamation, folding his arms, but he quickly melted back into a cheerful smile, “Oh alright. But you aren’t going to have any fun!”

                Edward held the Author close to him and closed his eyes; he _hated_ teleporting, and he was glad when his feet were back on solid ground. They were in a darker corner of the hospital’s parking garage. “Thanks Wil.”

                “Well like I said, don’t blame me when you have a terrible time!” Wil said.

                “I’ll see you at home,” Edward said, and he carried the Author to the ER entrance, shouting for help.

                The nurses rushed into action, and soon Edward was left holding nothing but a dried layer of blood on his clothes. Hospital administration was asking him questions, “And exactly how do you know this man?”

                “I don’t,” Edward said. “I… ran into him, or almost did, on the side of the road. I’ve never seen him before.”

                “This is the second time you’ve had a run-in with someone injured. Are you good luck or bad luck, Edward?” his boss asked with a chuckle.

                “I guess I’m just doomed to the life of a Samaritan,” Edward said. “Any update on him?”

                The administrator gave him a sad smile, “I’m afraid not. The wounds were extensive, although I will say the brain bleed was minimal, amazing for just how violent the enucleation was. Did he say how he did it?”

                “He was almost out when I found him,” Edward said. “He didn’t say anything.”

                “Thank you, Edward. That will be all. Good job today.”

                Edward stood and let himself out. He felt numb, out of place and forever altered. This was the second time he was going to have to make one hell of a journey back to his car. This time, though, he would call a cab.


	7. Free Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Host and Edward celebrate a special day. (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains smut, blood and eye gore.

                “Edward was on his way to the clinic when he passed through the entrance hall, and ran into Bim Trimmer. “Edward! I have somebody to introduce you to before you run off!”

                Edward stopped and looked up from the papers in his hands. His eyes widened and he stammered, “A-Author? Is that you?”

                The Host smiled, “The Host is surprised to see Edward here of all places.”

                Edward was surprised of course, and the Host could hear the smile in his voice, “Host?”

                The Host nodded, “The Host wonders if Edward will be able to show him around.”

                “Of course,” Edward said.

                Bim left them to their conversation, sensing that he was intruding and bored from their lack of attention. They didn’t notice his absence. The Host was lost in Edward’s voice, and Edward couldn’t believe he was seeing-”

 

                The Host paused in his story as Edward cleared his throat. The blood was rolling down the Host’s cheeks like tears, and Edward dabbed it away with gauze, “You’re keyed up today.”

                “The Host wonders if Edward has forgotten the significance of the date.”

                Edward looked over his shoulder, squinting at the calendar on his wall. No marked holiday, but the date _did_ seem familiar. “Is today… the day when I got lost in the woods?”

                The Host smiled just barely, “Edward’s heartbeat quickens as he imagines what the Host is thinking about. Sweaty bodies, books pushed off of a desk, breathing the same hot, humid air as lips hover inches apart.”

                Edward cleared his throat, trying to retain some sense of composure, “Is that what you’re thinking about?”

                That puckish smirk in reply, “The Host doesn’t lie.”

                Edward leaned in, and their kiss quickly became heated; he could feel the Host’s blood smearing hot on his face, but that wasn’t new—and it had become a pleasant signal of arousal between them, as plain as a leaking cock. The Host’s narration went quiet, returning to the warm white noise that Edward was used to—an auditory security blanket. Another sound caught his attention, however, when his desk’s surface was cleared away, papers and charts scattering to the floor. “I hope you’re cleaning that up,” Edward muttered against the Host’s lips.

                The Host paused, then he took a breath, “Edward undresses, and arranges himself against the desk for the Host.”

                “Arranges?” Edward mused, but those invisible hands were already on him, pulling him backward.

                Edward undressed quickly, shedding clothing and tossing them out of the way. He went to the desk, unsure how to _arrange_ himself, but then he was pushed forward, and he put his hands down to brace himself, chuckling. He lowered himself a little more, resting his face on his arms as he listened to the Host, undressing, rummaging for lube, each action endearing and beautiful rolling off of the Host’s tongue. Edward was lost in it, the sweet rhythm of his lover’s voice, until there was a firm, resounding _smack_ to his ass. Edward grabbed onto the desk and lifted his head, letting out a startled laugh. It wasn’t often that a man who announced his every movement managed to be surprising. The break in tension was short-lived as the Host’s well-slicked cock pushed into Edward, and the doctor’s smile broke into an indulgent moan as he was breached.

                The Host wasn’t a gentle man, not in the strictest sense; the rage had gone out of him with his eyes, but some things are ingrained in a man’s soul. The Host’s rough treatment was as constant and familiar as Edward’s vanity, and the way he preened under the attention every time the Host growled about how tight, how handsome, how muscular he was. They’d had time to get familiar with one another’s pleasures and needs from Edward’s praise kink to the Host’s desire to hear every little sound Edward made. Even biting his lip to muffle a whimper was too much, and Edward had trained himself by now to be loud—more genuine than genuine with his body’s responses. And now, with the Host pounding into him and growling matter-of-fact compliments in his ear, Edward was feeling _very_ responsive.

                Edward gasped as he was flipped around, and there was little time to complain about the loss of the Host inside him, as he thrust back in. They kissed, but the Host kept it brief, wanting his mouth free, but it wasn’t enough for Edward. He desperately needed something more, something solid and grounding. He cupped the Host’s face and kissed his cheek, his temple, his nose; he licked away one of the long lines of blood that had flowed down to his jaw. The Host’s blood filled his mouth with copper and cinnamon, and he moaned around the taste. He wanted more, his mind buzzing and he let his tongue trail just under the Host’s left eye socket, and then he dipped inside. The Host’s hips bucked forward, and he let out a broken, octave jumping moan. Edward grinned and held the Host’s head still with both hands as he went in for more, mind spinning at the heady taste and exquisite noises he got for his troubles.

                The Host’s narrations jumped and stuttered, raising his voice to cry out, “Edward cums, and the Host can’t help but follow!”

                Edward arched off the desk as the otherworldly power entered him and took control of his body. The Host loved springing Edward’s orgasm on him, taking away control. He clung to the Host as his release took him apart, leaving him a panting, sweating mess, “Not… fair.”

                “All is fair in love and war,” Host muttered, resting his head against Edward’s shoulder. “The Host is glad that Edward found him.”

                “And I’m glad that you found me,” Edward said. “Would you care for a shower while I can still stand?”

                “The Host isn’t sure Edward can stand,” the Host said. “But he is in desperate need of a shower.”

                Edward chuckled breathlessly, “Help me up.”

                The Host pulled Edward to his feet, showcasing the strength he hid beneath his quiet nature. He kissed Edward, a deep, slow affair that Edward could only expect in the afterglow of sex. It was a rare treasure that he was careful to make the most of, and then they parted, and the host muttered softly, using his narration to find his clothes.

 

                Their shower turned into a bath, and Edward was resting with his back against the Host, his lover’s breath tickling the nape of his neck when he realized he’d interrupted the Host before, “Host?”

                The Host’s soft muttering paused, “Hm?”

                “Finish your story,” Edward sighed.

                The Host smiled against his neck, and kissed the spot, “Edward gave the Host an extensive tour of the mansion. The Host narrated his way around obstacles, and it was hard for Edward to remember that he was blind. He showed the Host into the large, disused library. It was heavy with dust and the smell of musty old books. It would be his sanctuary, his home, and then Edward showed the Host to his own bedroom, where they spent the first of many nights in a lover’s embrace. All of this because a murderer in the woods couldn’t bring himself to kill the man who would drag him through a transcendence neither of them could have expected.”

                Edward smiled, “How’s it end?”

                “Happily.”


End file.
